


Bad Blood

by BlackPrism, Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A little bit of sweet lovin', Alcoholism, Angst, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Grieving, Hank and Connor pull through together, Happy Ending, Hurt & Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, nonconsensual drugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 03:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackPrism/pseuds/BlackPrism, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: “It’s not fair to me,” Connor had said, soft and defeated,  taking his final aim at Hank’s denial-fueled anger. “This isn’t just about you anymore.”It had been the start of the first of many fights between them, until the one that culminated into Connor pouring Hank’s whiskey down the drain while Hank had left the house and slammed the door shut behind him. He’d walked around for hours in the cool spring evening until his feet were aching and he was shivering in the breeze. He’d walked past a liquor store and stood outside, hesitating.How much can you push someone until they leave? How much do you dread the cool sheets in your empty bed, the vacant space left by someone your heart aches for at night?





	Bad Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Blackprism/Sleepyskele drew the wonderful art that inspired this fic - it was lovely working with them. You can find their art post [here on their Tumblr](https://sleepyskele.tumblr.com/post/187421417978/some-stuff-for-the-hankcon-reverse-big-bang-so), go comment and reblog it!
> 
> The rest of the works for this Reverse BigBang are listed [here](https://hankconrbb.wordpress.com/).

October

Hank remembers adjusting to life after his divorce. After Cole. Getting used to the loneliness that left him feeling lost, going from sharing a bed with a wife to sleeping alone with nothing but his grief for company.

He thought he’d never sleep well again. The alcohol had changed that. It kept him warm and numb. Sometimes Sumo would get in with him, when he was too wasted out of his mind to tell the dog no.

Having someone to share his bed with again hadn’t even registered as an option. He was 53. Divorced. Grieving. An alcoholic. A cop.

(Alcoholic, though he wouldn’t admit that. Grieving, but he didn’t want to think about that.)

These days he wakes up to the pleasant weight of an android body next to him. Connor sleeps - spends time in stasis, whatever it’s called - he sleeps deep and still, unmoving aside from the gentle flutter of his lashes.

(“_They’re not dreams, Hank_,” Connor insists, pressing a finger to the eggs on Hank’s plate to gauge their temperature. “_They’re just process simulations._”

“_Sounds like dreaming to me_,” Hank says, and Connor wrinkles his nose.)

It’s been six months since they first kissed. Since they got together. Since they slept in the same bed for the first time.

Ten months since the night Hank thought he’d lose everything that he hadn’t even realised he’d gained.

Second chances are odd. Hank had never asked for one, and still it had been granted to him.

Connor opens his eyes and turns his head to face Hank, smiling in the dim blue light of the morning. Hank doesn’t think he could sleep without Connor again.

They have their problems. Connor is still trying to understand how the world works without the aid of his programming there to guide him. His behaviour has jarring moments, his mouth full of sharp honesties that sometimes cut Hank deep.

“Your chances of dying of a heart-attack before you reach 60 are exceptionally high for a man your age,” Connor had said one evening, eyeing the empty beer bottles next to Hank’s glass of whiskey.

Hank could’ve ignored that, even though it set a shameful heat inside him.

“It also affects your performance in bed,” Connor had added, tone a little sharp.

Hank had hunkered down, and Connor had kept going, Hank’s temper heating up while he built his defences.

“It’s not fair to me,” Connor had said, soft and defeated, taking his final aim at Hank’s denial-fueled anger. “This isn’t just about you anymore.”

It had been the start of the first of many fights between them, until the one that culminated into Connor pouring Hank’s whiskey down the drain while Hank had left the house and slammed the door shut behind him. He’d walked around for hours in the cool spring evening until his feet were aching and he was shivering in the breeze. He’d walked past a liquor store and stood outside, hesitating.

How much can you push someone until they leave? How much do you dread the cool sheets in your empty bed, the vacant space left by someone your heart aches for at night?

He had returned home empty-handed. The fridge had been cleaned of every single beer can, every stashed bottle of whiskey thrown away. Even the trash had been emptied. Connor had sat on the floor, petting Sumo, refusing to look up when Hank had entered the house.

Hank had sat down beside him, sinking his hands into Sumo’s fur.

“Okay,” Hank had said, voice soft, humiliated. Resigned. “I’ll try.”

The smile Connor had given made him think he could pull through.

Turns out quitting cold turkey isn’t as easy as he thought. They have more fights - about Hank’s insistence that he can have just a few (he can’t). About Connor insisting he take up therapy, which Hank rails and rails against. He’s always dealt with his shit on his own. He’s never needed anybody's help.

“And look where it’s gotten you,” Connor had snapped, wielding his honesty an awful lot like a weapon.

Hank is starting to understand that when it comes to them, Connor gets what he wants. It’s odd, the realisation Hank has when he gives in and books an appointment with a recommended therapist covered by his insurance. He knows it’s not the correct reason to do it, but the fact is it’s for Connor.

There’s this look Connor gives him when he comes home smelling of cheap beer and whiskey, one so full of wounded hurt and abandonment that it threatens to crack Hank’s heart in two. Maybe it’s manipulative, but Connor doesn’t seem to be aware of it. He just carries his heart on his sleeve, every vulnerability of his on brilliant display for Hank to see, so that he can never trample on them claiming he didn’t know.

He wants to get better. He wants to be healthy like he was ten years ago when his world didn’t have a gaping hole the shape of his son in it. He wants to remember the time he has with Connor, instead of spending it in an alcoholic haze.

Mostly he wants Connor to be happy. He can’t be the reason Connor’s eyes are guarded or his posture is hunched in on himself. He can’t be the reason Connor is quiet and full of sadness or worry. He can’t stand to see the fear in Connor’s eyes when he helps Hank to bed or to the bathroom to empty out his stomach.

“Alright, I’m off,” he says, fiddling with his coat by the door. Connor smiles at him and kisses him softly, something akin to devotion in his large doe-eyes.

“Don’t stress about it,” Connor says, squeezing Hank’s hand. “Therapy is a long process.”

Hank adores him.

November

It’s early winter, Detroit settling into ice and snow. Hank and Connor celebrate their informal anniversary in the calm of their home, just the two of them, and Sumo. Hank orders takeout, a treat that has become rarer these days. Without the almost-daily hangovers, his cravings for fat and sodium have diminished. He has more energy to cook, and he admits to himself that he prefers it that way.

Not that his cooking is necessarily much healthier than the food he used to eat at diners and fast food places, but he likes the ritual of cooking. Connor likes to watch, his brown eyes so eager Hank teases him that he looks a lot like Sumo, who sits at Hank’s feet and stares hungrily up at him.

Connor can’t eat what Hank cooks, but he can sample and test the ingredients and the end results. He touches things to that clever tongue of his and tells Hank what textures he likes, which chemical compounds please him and which don’t. He likes chili the most - it’s the closest he comes to tasting flavour, the way it activates his sensors and puts them into overdrive.

They watch a movie, Hank resting on the couch with his head on Connor’s lap. Connor pets him, absently carding his fingers through his hair. Hank drowses, barely paying attention to the movie. He watches Connor, who is engrossed in the film, his attention on every line spoken on screen, every display of emotion. Hank sees his eyes widen at a grand declaration of love, sees him lean forward and grow tense when there is conflict amongst the characters.

So many things are new to Connor. He may have been built to be hard, to be ruthless, but after the revolution he had shed that off like an old skin.

At work, he still carries the pedigree of his manufacturing. At home, he becomes exposed, vulnerable. A young man watching a Hollywood romance with his eyes wide with wonder, flushed with pleasure when everything is tied up neatly at the end, sealed with a kiss and a rose-red bow.

Hank wants desperately to give him that. He’s 54 and on his second lease on life, and he’s gone through too much to be able to match Connor’s enchanted outlook on the world. But he can make sure he makes Connor happy, can give Connor the best he has.

Hank didn’t think he could fall in love again, but now that he has, it sits in his core, a warm weight that is comforting on his old heart.

The movie ends, and Connor looks down at Hank, the remains of a smile on his lips. It’s easy for Hank to wrap his hand behind Connor’s neck and tug him lower, to sit up and press his mouth to Connor’s.

Hank is in love.

They go to bed early, with snow falling in fat flakes outside, the world quiet and calm. They touch each other in the darkness of their bedroom, warm under the shared covers, swallowing each other’s gasps and moans, hands mapping the familiar planes and curves of their bodies.

They fall asleep sated, content, happy. Connor curls against Hank’s chest, under the solid weight of Hank’s arm wrapped around him. Hank clings to him, seeking safety as much as he gives protection.

Sumo pads into the room, sensing no one is awake to tell him off. Hank stirs when the dog climbs onto the bed and circles at their feet before slumping down with a huff, his head resting on Hank’s ankle.

It’s not the anniversary of their first kiss, but it’s the anniversary of the day they found each other.

There is happiness, for some. Others have to find different ways to survive.

December.

She has built herself a comforting routine.

She gets up early in the mornings. She doesn’t linger - she gets up quickly, not wanting to stay alone in the wide bed.

She got a cat, even though David hates them. It’s fine, he’s not here to complain. She named the cat Belle, though it turned out to be a he. He’s also an asshole. He pisses everywhere and tears up the fucking furniture and vomits hairballs into her shoes. But she feels less crazy when she talks out loud, when she tells him about her day because she can’t tell David.

She works extra hours, and after work she buys something from the corner store and walks around town, eating, avoiding going home.

At home, she changes Belle’s water and gives him more food, cleans up the piss, resists the urge to rub the cat’s nose in it. It doesn’t know any better.

_Men_, she thinks to herself.

She takes a sleeping pill and goes to bed early, her back turned towards David’s side. She misses the way he’d ramble in bed. It used to annoy her. He always wanted to talk when she wanted to sleep. Stupid shit, too. Things that had nothing to do with her.

She tries to remember a particular rant of his, but they all melt together. She falls asleep imagining his weight pressing the mattress down.

Weekends are the worst. The office is closed, so she can’t kill the hours by working. She usually goes to the movies, even when there’s nothing good showing. She sits in the mostly empty matinees, with her overpriced popcorn and a diet soda and watches movies she’ll end up remembering little of.

She doesn’t have a lot of friends anymore. That sort of thing - people tend to disappear from around you. They get uncomfortable and drop off. No one ever *says it*, but it’s too much. They don’t know how to be around her anymore. Or they don’t want to associate with that kind of stuff.

Her dad died when she was little. A weak heart. Her doctor told her she has it too, but it turns out he was wrong. Hers is strong. Too strong.

Mom died a year before the wedding. Just as well. She didn’t approve anyway. She would’ve spent the whole ceremony and reception with her face screwed into a sour expression.

If she’d been alive now, what would she have said?

“_I told you so_,” with a snide tone?

That’s what her sister had said, before cutting her out of her life.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas. There’s snow and all, and Christmas carols playing in every store, and those tacky decorative projections lighting up the streets.

At least this year she doesn’t have to go Christmas shopping.

She does order Belle a toy, a feather tied to a string hanging off a wooden stick. She considers wrapping it up and giving it to him on Christmas, but then decides there’s no point.

The cat doesn’t even glance at the damn thing.

On Christmas Eve, her phone rings. She rushes to answer it, already prepared for toneless male voice on the other end.

”_You have a prepaid call. You will not be charged for this call. This call is from an inmate at Chippewa Correctional Facility._”

She accepts, her heart pounding, and presses the phone to her ear.

“Hello?” She says, voice soft and nervous.

“_Hey, baby!_” David says, full of bravado. Like he’s away on a work trip, not locked away for a decade.

“It’s been a while,” she says and tries not to sound accusing. She doesn’t want to make him feel any worse.

“_Yeah, I’m sorry. Got into some trouble, assholes here decided not to let me use the phone for a bit._” He laughs, derisive. “_Can you believe that? Like shit doesn’t suck enough as it is._”

She smiles. She’s missed his voice.

Someone yells in the background. A door slams. The connection is awful. It crackles in her ear with static, reminding her of old landlines when she was a little girl.

She lets him talk. He rants about the trial and the sentencing and his legal team, even though it’s been months. Tells about the newcomers and the friends he’s made, curses the shit on tv.

She thinks about the irony that he has more of a social life on the inside than she does on the outside.

When the prerecorded voice warns them that their time is running out, she tells him she loves him, and that she’ll come see him in January.

“_Love ya too, babe_,” David says and blows her a loud, wet air-kiss.

That night she cries herself to sleep. She cries harder than she did when David was given his sentence. She aches, a little for David, who might not make it out of prison alive with his health issues. Mostly she cries for herself - for how lonely she is, and will be for the rest of her life. When the sleeping pill begins to take effect she cries for the victim’s family, but that peeking guilt will have evaporated come Christmas morning, replaced by the ever-lingering resentment.

She’s cleaning out the closet two days later. A large cardboard box topples over and nearly hits her head. It falls onto the floor, spilling papers everywhere. Court documents, lawyer billings, bank statements, hospital records.

“_The charge of vehicular homicide resulted from the defendant’s motor vehicle hitting an oncoming vehicle carrying the decedent, who was driving, and her mother, on June 12th, 2038._

_Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the Detroit Police Department arrived on scene at approximately 5:17 pm while off-duty. Upon arrival, Lieutenant Anderson found David Ward slumped over his steering wheel. Lieutenant Anderson reported a strong smell of alcohol coming from the defendant._”

She stuffs the papers back into the box and kicks it into the back of the closet.

She sits on the floor, the cat pawing at her feather duster.

She pulls the box out, leafs through the papers again.

Lieutenant Hank Anderson.

She takes out her phone and types his name into the search engine.

January

“Is the case getting to you because of Cole?”

“It has nothing to do with Cole. This kid needs help, and I’m not a social worker. They’re pussyfooting around because his parents are high-profile, and it’s against everything I stand for.”

“You feel powerless?”

“Of course I feel powerless! Not just in a personal capacity, but what fucking good is it being a cop if we bend the rules just because someone’s friends with the mayor?”

“If it makes you question the force, that’s a huge impact on your identity. You have a long career, and you have a strong sense of justice. We should talk about how it affects your sense of self if you’re questioning the morality of the police force.”

“I believe in the system. Just… not the people.”

A pause. Then, reluctantly:

“Connor says they’re the same thing.”

“You talk about this with him?”

“Not… really. He doesn’t fully get it. He still looks at things in binaries, especially when it comes to work. I think he still finds nuances troubling.”

“Does that cause friction between the two of you?”

“...I- sometimes. Sometimes it drives me up the wall. Connor is an optimist at heart, he has endless reserves of hope. He’s not naive, he just… doesn’t like it when I criticise the force. I guess it’s because of his past. Who he was made to be. How do you question something if it’s all you’ve ever known?”

“I don’t know. How do you?”

Hank pulls his glove off, unlocking his phone and opening the messaging app. The cold January wind makes his fingers freeze before he’s even finished typing.

“_I’m gonna head to Jimmy’s. Just to see the guys._”

He clenches and unclenches his fist to keep circulation going, waiting for a response. He misses the phones from the early 2000s, with physical keyboards you could type on even without glancing at your phone, not to mention without taking your gloves off.

He waits for Connor to reply. Seconds tick by. Hank can sense Connor’s worry in the silent hesitation.

“_I’m not going to drink,_” Hank sends, trying to remind himself that Connor has enough experience with Hank relapsing to be entitled to his concern.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t get on Hank’s nerves.

“_Is Rita okay with that? Should you be in an environment where you used to get habitually drunk?_” Connor replies

“_Yes, she says if I feel like I can handle it, it’s up to me. She told me to tell you._”

“_Well, you told me :)_”

Then, another message right away.

“_I still don’t like it. Let me know when you leave the bar._”

Hank rolls his eyes and puts his glove back on, heading towards his car.

There’s a game on. Hank greets Jimmy and sits at the end furthest from the tv, and orders a coke. Not even a diet one - why not splurge a little, he thinks with amusement. He comes here rarely now - for old times’ sake, maybe. He knows it puts Connor on edge, but he needs somewhere to be besides work and home and his therapist’s office.

Maybe it’s a test on himself, too. To see if he can resist the temptation. He feels a little itchy, and when he sips his coke the sweetness spreading over his tongue feels unsatisfying.

He thinks of how easy it would be to order just one beer.

He thinks of how much easier it is these days to keep with the soda.

He thinks of Connor’s face when Hank comes home, sober, having resisted the temptation, and he smiles to himself. And just like that he knows he’s only going to have his soda - because it’s been a really long day, and he misses Connor a lot.

He’s considering just leaving his coke unfinished and heading home, sitting down on the couch with Connor curled against his side and Sumo at his feet, maybe dozing off in front of the tv, when a woman sits down next to him.

“A rowdy bunch, huh?” She smiles, nodding towards the end of the bar where a group of people are yelling at the tv.

Hank glances at them and snorts. “Yeap. Been one of them myself, a few times.”

“You come here often?” The woman asks, and Hank has to school his face into a neutral expression to hide his amusement at the clumsy come-on.

“Not as much these days,” he says politely. He studies her, trying to not be too obvious about his curiosity. She’s okay looking. Maybe his age, maybe a little older. Looks kinda tired, even under her makeup. Plump, dressed more for the cold than to look nice. Practical.

A few years back Hank would’ve maybe been interested. Now, someone is waiting for him at home, someone he misses terribly after only 12 hours apart.

“I just moved here,” she says. “This is the first bar I saw - figured it’d be a good place to make friends.”

Hank laughs at that. “Jimmy’s? Not exactly a place you come to make new friends.”

“Oh,” she says, looking dejected. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother-”

Ah. Now Hank feels a bit shitty.

“Nah, it’s fine, always happy to meet new people,” he says kindly. “Just meant in general the clientele isn’t exactly the most outgoing type, if you get my drift.”

She smiles and then offers her hand. “Lorraine.”

“Hank Anderson,” Hank says, shaking her hand. She looks delighted.

“Four down, “the kindly ones”, six-letter word.”

Connor turns to look at Sumo who wags his tail at him.

Connor purses his mouth, resisting the urge to run a search.

“Furies?” He asks Sumo. Sumo huffs and rolls onto his side, back pressed against the sofa. Connor reaches down over the edge of the sofa, petting Sumo’s thick fur.

“Furies,” Connor repeats and writes it down, the crossword puzzle propped up against his thighs. He checks the clock.

It’s two hours since Hank’s text. He should be on his way home by now.

Connor doesn’t check the GPS. They’d agreed on it, months ago, at the encouragement of Hank’s therapist.

He jolts when he receives a call request from Hank and tries not to let the concern in his voice bleed through when he answers.

“_Hey Connor, uh, it’s Mike from Jimmy’s_.”

Connor’s thirium pump begins to beat quicker, and Connor has to send a command to the regulator to reset the rhythm.

“Hello, Mike. Is everything alright?” He asks, keeping his voice calm.

“_Yeah, but I think it’s better if you came to pick Hank up. He’s pretty sauced, asked me to call you. He can’t drive, that’s for sure._”

Connor sits up, that terrible disappointment taking over. It’s not the first time, but it had been so long. He really thought he could trust Hank with this. He makes a decision to go with Hank to his next appointment with Rita.

“I’ll be there,” he says curtly, already sending a request for a taxi.

Hank isn’t “pretty sauced.” He’s completely out of it, barely coherent when Connor marches up to him in a booth.

Connor hasn’t been this angry in months. If ever. He wants to shake Hank, wants to yell at him, a part of him wants to go home and pack his things and go spend the night somewhere else.

“How much did he have?” He asks Mike, who makes a clueless gesture.

“Don’t know. He was here when I came in to relieve Jimmy. He was chatting up some lady,” he says, looking uncomfortable.

“A lady?” Connor frowns.

“Yeah, I didn’t know her. She was pretty insistent about helping him get home, too, but I knew you’d blow a fuse,” Mike says, giving Connor a smile that could be described as smarmy. Connor’s still not sure if any of the staff at the bar like him.

“Very considerate of you,” he says dryly and hauls Hank up.

“Con?” Hank says, gripping him tight. He looks at Connor, his eyes all glassy, and Connor feels pity sprout amidst his anger. He knows what will follow - possibly a bender, fueled by self-hatred, or Hank sinking into a funk, beating himself up over and over again for failing.

“Let’s get you home,” Connor says tersely, beginning to walk Hank out. It’s difficult - Hank can barely walk, most of his weight resting on Connor. He keeps trying to mumble something, but Connor’s too tired and too angry and too hurt to try to make sense of it.

“Stop,” Hank says, when they’re by Hank’s car. Connor pauses, and Hank leans over and empties the contents of his stomach into the snow. Connor watches with cool detachment.

“You said you wouldn't drink,” he says coldly, holding Hank so he doesn’t stumble into his own sick.

“I didn't… Con…”

“Just shut up,” Connor snaps.

In the car Hank is silent. The smell of sick fills the cramped space. Connor drives with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, putting all of his focus on the road to avoid having to think about what Hank has just done, how much progress he’s just torn apart, how much trust has just been damaged.

Before, Connor would have stripped Hank, tucked him into bed, brought him a bucket and held him until the nausea passed and he fell into a drunken sleep.

Connor’s tired. He’s done this too many times, and every time he had warned Hank, questioned the wisdom of his choices.

He makes Hank drink a tall glass of water and then moves him to the couch.

“No, no, not-” Hank slurs, trying to grab onto Connor. “I didn’t drink...”

Connor balks, yanking his arm away in anger. “At least have the dignity to be honest,” he snaps, grabbing a blanket and tossing it at Hank. There’s an ache in his gut that he knows he’ll have to find it in himself to forgive Hank for. “I could handle the drinking, Hank. It’s the lying that I can’t stand.”

“No, I… She offered...”

“She must’ve offered you several,” Connor says, tone on this side of mean. The woman isn’t the problem. In that sense Connor trusts Hank.

“Just a coke, that’s- something’s not right,” Hank says, hand still reaching for Connor.

“No, it really isn’t,” Connor says quietly. “I hate not being able to trust you, Hank.”

Hank doesn’t answer. His breathing is laboured but even. Connor flicks off the light, leaving Sumo guarding Hank.

“We’ll talk in the morning. Goodnight, Hank.”

He leaves the bedroom door open. If Hank is sick again, he wants to know.

He doesn’t want to force stasis. He’s so angry he feels impotent with it. Hank has never intentionally hurt him, but this feels even worse. As though Connor isn’t enough.

He knows he’s not supposed to think like that. He knows Hank loves him very much.

So why isn’t it enough? He asks himself.

He curls around himself, hoping it will somehow loosen the tightness around his chest. He can hear Hank’s soft groans from the living room, and he wants very badly to go get him. Why should he punish himself for Hank’s mistakes? He wants to hold Hank close and fall asleep next to him.

But there’s venom in him that he can’t flush out, a current of something bitter that wants to hurt Hank. It’s already evaporating, but it’s there, satisfied by leaving Hank alone on the sofa, like punishing a misbehaving child.

He buries his face into Hank’s pillow and tries to rest.

“This is my favourite,” Cole says, holding up a frog. It’s bright blue, and it looks like porcelain, a pretty, delicate little thing.

“It’s nice,” Hank says, smiling. The beach is empty. It’s cold, the lake frozen, but they’re wearing shorts and tee shirts. Hank doesn’t feel cold.

“There’s a bad man at school,” Cole says. “He hits my friend.”

“I know,” Hank says. He sits down on the hard sand, and Cole sits down next to him, still holding the frog.

“He says you can’t help because his dad has more money than you.”

“He’s right. Child protective services won’t remove the kid from his home.”

“You’re the police,” Cole says, but he sounds a lot like Hank himself. “Fucking do something, before he kills the kid.”

“Don’t swear,” Hank says sternly to himself. “That’s not how I do things.”

“Well, maybe it’s how I should start doing things,” Hank snaps. “I’ve been doing this for over 30 years, and it keeps getting worse and worse.”

“Yeah, and me taking things into my own hands isn’t going to make it magically better,” Hank growls. The frog hops around on the sand. It’s so blue.

“Let me buy you a drink,” the other Hank says. He’s smiling.

“Can’t. Got someone waiting at home.”

“Just one,” he wheedles. “I gotta head home soon myself, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

It is. He doesn’t have a lot of friends besides Connor and Jeffrey. But he promised Connor…

“Okay. Just the one,” he says. “Another coke then.” He doesn’t have to finish all of it. He’s just being polite. He’ll go home soon.

Lorraine smiles.

“Gotta head home,” Jimmy says. Mike is already pouring beers by the crowd watching tv. Hank turns around to talk to Jimmy. Say hi to the wife. Drive safe.

When he turns back around, Lorraine lifts her own drink. Hank toasts her with his, taking another sip. He thinks there’s a funny after-taste, makes a mental note to tell Mike to clean the soda taps.

“To new friends,” Lorraine says, her eyes crinkled with joy.

The frog is bright blue. It reflects off the ice cubes in Hank’s glass.

The blue reflects off the shattered glass. Blue and red flashes.

Hank’s head is ringing. He feels nauseous. He braces himself against the roof of his upturned car and undoes his seatbelt, crashing down ungracefully. His arm and ribs hurt.

“Cole?” He coughs out, trying to turn around to see into the back seat. “Cole, are you okay?”

There’s no answer. The flashing lights are closer now, and Hank knows help is coming. He manages to twist himself around.

“Cole?” He yells. “Cole, come on, daddy’s right here!”

“Daddy?”

The living room is dark. Cole stands at the foot of the sofa, his face pale. He’s dressed in the pajamas he was buried in - pale blue flannel, with polar bears on it.

“Cole,” Hank croaks. He tries to sit up, but his body won’t quite obey.

“Daddy, I miss you,” Cole says, his face scrunching up like he’s about to cry.

“Daddy misses you too,” Hank says. His cheeks are wet. His chest is tight, and it hurts to breathe. Why can’t he hold Cole? He wants to hold his son.

Connor’s brought out of the light stasis by the sound of whimpering and soft sobs.

“Hank?” He calls out, worried. There’s no answer. He gets out of bed and moves through the quiet house.

In the living room, Sumo is standing by the sofa, nosing at Hank, whining softly. Hank is crying in his sleep, sobbing.

“Cole,” he groans.

Connor ushers Sumo away and kneels by Hank’s side. He shakes Hank, carefully at first, then with more force.

Hank opens his eyes, staring at Connor with a hazy look on his face.

“Cole’s here,” he says. His cheeks are wet. His speech is slurred.

Connor feels cold, all of a sudden.

“Hank, open your mouth,” he says. Hank stares at him and then parts his lips.

Connor swipes his forefinger over Hank’s tongue and brings it to his own mouth.

The analysis reports no trace of alcohol. But there is something else.

_Flunitrazepam_.

Rohypnol.

Guilt hits Connor like a sledgehammer. It leaves him breathless and aching.

“Hank, sit up,” he says gently, coaxing Hank up. Hank is sluggish, almost a dead weight.

“Hank, you’ve been drugged,” Connor whispers, moving to sit by him on the couch.

“Lorraine,” Hank says. “She bought me a drink.” He sounds lost. Confused.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispers, pulling Hank into his arms.

“Cole is here,” Hank says, his words mumbled into Connor’s shirt.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” Connor says, stroking Hank’s hair. “I should’ve trusted you.”

Hank sleeps, and Connor watches him. A nurse comes in to check on them every now and then, an android with kind eyes and a serious mouth.

They say Hank is lucky. He’s a big man. If he’d been average size, and if he’d been drinking alcohol, the dose would have knocked him out quickly. Combined with alcohol, the drug can do serious damage.

Hank doesn’t dream anymore - or at least he sleeps quietly. Connor holds his hand and waits.

Jimmy’s has no security cameras. There are too many Lorraines in Detroit for Connor to find anything to go on. She might not even have given her real name.

When Hank wakes up he remembers little of last night. When he realises he’s in a hospital bed he grows pale, terror flashing across his face before he realises Connor is with him.

“What happened?” He croaks, and Connor gives him some water.

There are gaps in the story that Connor can’t fill. Maybe Jimmy can, when they get a hold of him. All Connor knows is that Hank went in for a soda, was offered a drink by a woman who called herself Lorraine, and was drugged.

And that Connor thought he had drank himself into a stupor, that he had endangered Hank’s health because of his own hurt feelings and distrust.

“You couldn’t have known,” Hank says quietly, staring at his hands. “Addicts can’t be trusted.”

The words cut Connor to the bone.

“That’s not true,” he says, squeezing Hank’s hand. “You _were_ honest. You were in control. I should’ve listened, I should’ve run a test, you could’ve been hurt-”

“Hey, kid,” Hank says, sitting up in the bed. “Let’s not do this, okay? We fucked up, it happens. You had your reasons.”

“I don’t feel good,” Connor says miserably. “I love you, I feel terrible that I left you alone. It feels awful, in _here_,” he says, touching his chest.

Hank’s expression softens, and he pulls and coaxes until Connor climbs onto the bed with him.

“That’s the shitty thing about being alive,” he murmurs. Connor lets out a soft, vulnerable sound, and curls against Hank. He wraps his arms around Hank’s wide waist and presses his nose to Hank’s temple.

“Why would she do that?” He asks.

“I don’t know,” Hank says, sounding thoughtful. “I don’t remember her. I don’t remember her face. I doubt I’d recognise her if I saw her again.”

“Do you think it’s related to one of our cases?” Connor asks, reaching one hand to stroke Hank’s hair. It’s matted and a little oily, but it smells so much of Hank. Connor can’t get enough of it. He loves Hank.

“Who knows. I’ve been at this a long time, baby. Lots of people who probably have a grudge.”

Something has been bothering Connor.

“Mike said she was trying to take you with her,” he says. “She drugged you, and then tried to make you go with her.”

Hank is silent, and when Connor glances up his eyes are closed.

“Hank?”

“It’s not worth thinking about,” he says gruffly.

“She could’ve hurt you. Or worse,” Connor says, voice soft with fear.

“She didn’t,” Hank says, voice hard. “I’m fine, Con.”

Hank takes time off from work. Jeffrey assigns a team to investigate what happened, but Hank doesn’t hold his breath. Connor is more invested than him, keeping tabs on the case, ranting about it. It drives Hank insane for the first few days until he realises that Connor is trying to cope with the first serious near-loss in his life as a deviant. Fear makes people act irrationally.

Once he realises that, it becomes easier to tolerate. Connor fusses over him, clingy. He touches Hank constantly, as though assuring himself that Hank is alright. That he’s still here. Hank knows too that part of it is Connor trying to ease his guilt.

It’s a little fucked up, but it makes Hank feel better.

At night Connor curls against Hank’s back and holds him, keeping him warm. Hank doesn’t complain - the days are frigid, snow and wind having taken over Detroit. He takes comfort in the warmth of their bed, in the steady beat of Connor’s thirium pump against his skin, the tender strokes of Connor’s hand on him.

He sees Rita. They talk about the night at the bar. Hank decides he’s going to quit going to bars for now. He’s not scared, he says, but he used to go because he needed to relax. He doesn’t think he can relax in a bar anymore.

They talk about Connor, about the way his guilt and fear manifest.

They talk about why Hank isn’t hurt by Connor’s lack of trust in him that night.

“I’m an alcoholic,” Hank says, matter of fact. “He’s in a relationship with an alcoholic. I’ve fallen off the wagon enough times for him to be entitled to not trusting me.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to remain sober if you think that’s what addicts do - relapse?” Rita asks, no judgement in her voice.

Hank thinks about that on his way home.

By the weekend, things have stabilised. Connor is less agitated, beats himself up a little less. There’s been some progress with the investigation, and it seems to have eased Connor’s guilt. Someone saw a woman get into a taxi before Connor arrived. It’s just a matter of tracking down the order.

(Hank tries not to bitter about how quickly cases seem to move when the victim is another cop. He should be thankful.)

Connor loosens up a little. Lets Hank have his space, doesn’t act quite so much like a beaten dog.

He’s so terribly sweet on Hank though. Hank’s not complaining. Connor’s always sweet on him.

Saturday morning dawns sunny and cold. They walk Sumo together, Hank bundled up in the new down-padded coat Connor had gotten him for Christmas. An old woolen hat covers his head and ears, a thick scarf around his neck and mouth. His gloved hand is held in Connor’s, who’s less thickly dressed but still protected against the chilling temperatures.

The sun shines brightly off the snow, the ground covered in glittering diamonds. Sumo noses at the snow, huffing, tail swaying happily.

When they get home Connor makes Hank tea, and Hank gets handsy with him in the kitchen.

Connor grins and turns around in his embrace, a devious glint in his eye. The one that always spells trouble and makes Hank’s pulse throb.

“Feeling frisky?” Connor asks, his lips brushing over Hank’s ear.

Hank hums, palming at Connor’s firm ass.

The tea is forgotten. They withdraw into the bedroom, clothes kicked off and left in piles on the floor as they climb under the thick covers. They kiss, Connor’s mouth warm against Hank’s, his hands touching him everywhere.

“Come on, baby,” Hank murmurs, scrubbing his bearded cheek against Connor’s until Connor’s synthetic skin turns dappled and then withdraws under the friction. Hank presses a kiss there, on the smooth surface of Connor’s chassis.

Connor huffs, petting Hank’s sides.

“You’re leaving prints all over me,” he complains, and Hank chuckles.

“You love it,” he says, nuzzling behind Connor’s ear.

“Shut up,” Connor grumbles, wrapping his legs around Hank’s waist, Hank shaking with muffled laughter.

They’re in too much of a hurry to do things properly - they rut against each other, Hank laying over Connor, braced on his elbows, so he can dip his head down to pepper kisses all over Connor’s face. Connor’s knees squeeze at Hank’s hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Hank’s waist. Connor swallows Hank’s gasps and they spill back out on his moans, breathy little sounds of want and happiness mingling on their breaths.

“That’s it, sugar,” Hank croons when Connor reaches between them, taking them both in hand. He wraps his own hand around Connor’s, and together they stroke each other, both of them fucking into the slick friction of their palms.

Connor comes first, groaning Hank’s name, and Hank laughs, low and fond. His hand is slick with Connor’s release and he tangles his fingers with Connor’s, ignoring the slickness between their hands that will, in about ten minutes, begin to disgust him and make Connor laugh.

He buries his face into the curve of Connor’s neck and rocks his hips down, rubbing his cock along the crease of Connor’s thigh until he comes with a stifled grunt, huffing against Connor’s smooth skin, his come spilling between them.

Hank lowers himself down on his side next to Connor while he catches his breath. He throws his arm over Connor’s belly and tugs him close, his nose pressed into Connor’s skin. He smells of clean plastic and detergent, an odd mix that Hank has grown to be fond of.

“That was nice,” Connor says. Hank can hear the smile in his voice.

“Sure was,” he agrees, voice rough and a little sleepy. He likes to nap after sex, his limbs loose and head blissfully empty. Connor rarely does, but he’ll remain in bed with Hank, holding him.

“The water heater is making sounds again,” Hank murmurs. “Last guy I had over to fix it tried to rip me off.”

“I can fix it,” Connor says eagerly. Hank smiles against his clavicle, thumb rubbing circles into Connor’s soft skin.

“I shacked up with a real Edison.”

“Edison stole ideas from a lot of people,” Connor says, sounding mildly disapproving.

The afternoon sun shines brightly through the windows. More snow is falling. Connor tells him the temperatures are well below zero, and Hank lets out a satisfied sound. What better excuse to stay in bed than the freezing weather?

Sumo noses the door open and comes to stand at the foot of the bed, looking at them with a hopeful expression. Hank snorts and pats the mattress, and Sumo jumps up, lying down and panting happily.

Connor picks up a book off the nightstand and begins to read. Hank watches him, and Connor pretends not to notice, but the corner of his mouth quirks up with amusement. His LED glows blue, pulsing rhythmically.

Hank rests his head on Connor’s shoulder, listening to the minute ticks and whirrs he can occasionally hear from underneath Connor’s chassis.

At the foot of the bed Sumo yawns, then huffs, and settles into sleep.

The drive to Upper Peninsula is five hours long. The rental car makes a strange noise for most of the final forty minutes or so. She’ll have to call the dealership before she starts the drive home.

David is in a bad mood. It’s their first time seeing each other in person since September. His privileges are still scarce. He blames it on his cellmate who won’t stop pushing his buttons.

She tells David about the cat, and he tells her off for it like she knew he would. She talks about the movies she’s seen until she realises she told him about them the last time on the phone.

She runs out of things to say.

She doesn’t tell David about Anderson. She doesn’t know if he’d be proud or angry. Angry she did it, or angry that she’d failed.

She’d thrown the gun into the river, that same night. She’d been too scared to keep it. She hadn’t realised how big he was. She should’ve brought two tablets.

When their hour is up, Lorraine is relieved, and then she feels guilty about it.

She eats dinner in a diner. Toast and eggs and bacon; breakfast food. It’s nice. She thinks of it as a little getaway.

She could just keep driving. Go somewhere warmer. Somewhere where she’d feel less alone. Who’s gonna miss her?

She finishes her coffee and begins the drive back to Detroit.

It’s getting dark by the time she pulls up to her driveway. She doesn’t notice the car parked up to the curb until the doors open and two men step out, approaching her.

One of them shows her a police badge.

“Lorraine Ward? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on:  
[Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
[Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  



End file.
